My Rural Pub
Balmy evening, sun not set, sky is azure blue,
As I set off to the pub, to sink a pint or two,
I stroll along the leafy lane, and cross a rotting stile,
It’s not a gruelling journey, just barely half a mile
The woods I have now passed through, and either side are crops,
And over in the distance, is the village church and shops
On my left is golden wheat, to the right is yellow rape,
And my friend, the lonesome horse, stands waiting by his gate
I walk into the village, up round past the church,
Up cobbled lane, my local, The Robber and the Birch
Rural English tavern, horse brasses, and oaken beam,
Weather-beaten whitewashed walls, slowly turning green
Ducking to protect my head, I push the creaky door,
Entering the alehouse, where footpads drunk before,
All the chequered history, of my ancestors lie here,
You can smell it in the woodwork, and taste it in the beer
Minstrels, Monks and Robbers, perhaps a Prince or two,
Have stopped to quaff a jug of ale, as they were passing through,
Relaxing by the window, I slowly sip my beers,
With the sounds of Merrie England, still ringing in my ears
The cricket teams’ just entered, a very happy crowd,
I think that they’ve just won their match, and feeling very proud,
The clink of cheerful glasses, loud celebrating toasts,
With giant plates of sandwiches, provided by our hosts
It’s time to go, I nod goodbye to the old man by the door,
Glancing round my local pub, it’s English to the core,
I wander back, round past the church, and down the dusky lane,
Down through the fields, and past the horse, away, to home again.
Mark CharlwoodÓ 2018
